And off we went

Another memory – Gary loved poinsettias. He got one every Christmas. I’ll be getting one again this year.

This is the time of the year when the memories seem to pile up like fresh, fallen snow. Some of them are so beautiful, like an untouched winter wonderland, and so my mind drifts (pun intended) off. It’s then that I remember:

Vonnie, Gary’s mom, and I heading off to Galesburg, Peoria, the Quad Cities – it didn’t matter. We were off to shop for Christmas.

Seems to me that we weren’t afraid of much of anything – the frigid temps, the blowing snow, the forecast for more of the same. That was especially true when Vonnie had the Tahoe. I remember heading toward Galesburg and seeing the snow blowing across an open part of the highway, obliterating any sign of the center line. We soldiered on.

Once we got there I suggested we leave Fran at the front of one of the stores. There was too much ice in the parking lot, ice that had melted and refrozen over and over, leaving dangerous lumps all over the place. Plus, there were a lot of brave shoppers just like us, so we had to drive around to find a spot. All that time, Fran stood in the cold wind waiting for us.

Once we got inside, the first thing we wanted was coffee. Turns out, the Sandburg Mall didn’t have a cozy restaurant for that. As we sat on a bench and Vonnie broke the bad news, we all thought about it and decided it would be worth it to get back in the car and go to Perkins first before shopping. Besides, that restaurant had the kind of meals we loved. Vonnie and I went and got the car, picked up our passenger from the front of the store, and headed to Perkins. (I’m pretty sure we all bought muffins to take home.)

After we were done shopping all over Galesburg that day, we ended up back at Perkins for supper.

This is the kind of memory I cherish at this time of year. And I’m thankful there are so many more.

God is good, through all the trials I’ve been through lately, and through all the years of living with those I loved and who loved me.

My life has changed – dramatically – from all those years ago. Thing is, I still have folks I love and who love me, who check in on me, who bring me food (and chocolate!), and who genuinely care. That means I am making more memories, and that is a beautiful thing.

Traveling back to my happy place

There they are – my two shopping buddies. What blessed memories!

Let me preface this post by saying it is NOT a “pity party” story. Not at all. This is a tale of how I am still (yes, still) adjusting to life as a widow, as one who lives completely alone. No pets, no live-in friends or relatives. It’s just little ol’ me.

Yes, I get almost-daily visits – from nurses and home-health aides. The nurse visits have gone from three to two days a week. That’s to be expected as one gets better.

I have oodles of friends I can call, just to talk and compare lives. Many of them are still married, and almost all of them have pets. Most of those who are alone now also have pets. I simply can’t have a fur-buddy, so I live vicariously through these friends and through online dog and cat pages: Tucker Budzyn, JadeTheSable, and others. I can put the phone up close and feel like I can almost pet these guys. I like that.

I found a new command for my Alexa the other day. I didn’t know if I’d like it, but it turns out I really, really like it. I say, “Alexa, open Cafe Sounds”, and she does. Here’s what this does for me:

Back in the day, when Gary’s mom, his aunt, and I went shopping, the girls and I would go to Peoria (my favorite place), stop at Bob Evans for breakfast, then I would be dropped at Barnes & Noble for hours while the two of them went shopping. I may not have noticed it at the time, but the ambiance of the coffee shop inside the bookstore was abuzz with sounds of coffee beans being ground, chatter, dishes clattering, footsteps, pages turning, books plunked down, people on phones. In this atmosphere, I could write. And read – oh, my, could I ever. We were allowed to bring whatever reading materials from the store shelves into the coffee shop and read to our heart’s content.

These are memories I never want to forget. And with Alexa’s new feature, I can relive them. As I nestle under the blanket and slip into sleep, I listen to those cafe sounds and it takes me back to those blessed days. I remember the car ride to Peoria, the pulling into a parking spot, walking into the restaurant, being seated, ordering breakfast, chatting over eggs, toast, oatmeal, banana bread, and seemingly endless cups of coffee.

I remember the drop-off, the hope that I would be able to stay here for hours, the shelves of magazines and books, the coffee counter, the tall, black coffee with a good dose of chocolate, the search for the “big” table (even if it was a bit wobbly), the setting up of the laptop, pulling out a writing notebook and pen. To me, it was a magical time. Truth be told, it still is.

Today, I’m careful about what memories I allow myself to have. I back away from too much news, too much discussion over our country’s current situation, reading hateful and hurtful comments on social media.

Yes, people come over. It’s their job. And I do like them, especially now that I’ve come to know them. But there is one who doesn’t visit anymore; the “pandemic” saw to that. Or, I should say, her reaction to the “news” about it. I have no clue when I’ll see her again, because it would seem the “news” and her belief in its veracity will keep us apart for perhaps weeks, months, even years. But that is a subject for another post, and putting that one together will create an unpleasant memory.

For now, I’m avoiding those and focusing on good mental health. I’ll just ask Alexa to play that special sound, sit back, close my eyes, and once again, I’ll go shopping with the girls.

Margi
Tuesday, June 30, 2020

I pressed The Button…and waited

Gary’s favorite rose bush, and his favorite buddy, Sarah Jane

Before I pressed The Button, I dried the dishes and put them away. I put all of my electronic gizmos on their chargers. I straightened the bathroom, even if I couldn’t straighten myself – the pain was intense.

Before I pressed The Button, I charged my phone and watch. I took my medical info off the fridge and put it in my purse, and made sure all insurance info was in there, too.

I didn’t want to press The Button. Not just because riding in an ambulance seems like overkill for a stomach ache that wouldn’t quit for five days, even if it did bend me over and cause me to cry out. It was mostly because I didn’t know if I would be coming home that day, and I believed my sweetheart’s remains would arrive the next.

Almost everything I get from Amazon comes to me by the post office. I ordered a lid for my wok, and due to the lateness of that order, I was told it would be here Monday – four days away. No problem.

But…I got a notice from UPS that a package was coming. There was little information – very little. I did find out it weighed 1.90 pounds. Since I had recently talked with folks at the hospital where I donated Gary’s body, and they told me where he was in the process, I felt this was it. He was coming home.

I hated pressing The Button. It was like saying I couldn’t wait until Gary came home before I left. But the doctor seemed insistent that I find out what that pain was.

Thoughts swirled. What if UPS left him outside? I have the best neighbors on the planet, and I knew I could ask them to take in the package, but how do you ask someone that? “Um, I’m stuck in the hospital. Could you watch for a package from UPS and take it to your house for me? Oh, by the way, it’s Gary in there so please be careful.” How could I DO that?

I pressed The Button. And I sat there and cried. I quit crying fast when I heard the ambulance siren wind down in front of the house. On the way to the hospital I cried and the paramedic asked me why. I told him the whole story. I got to the hospital and cried some more. The nurse asked me why. And I told her the whole story. The doctor stopped by to tell me the diagnosis, and that I could go home. And I cried while I told her the whole story.

But I had free time at the hospital while test results were studied, so I went to Amazon to see if – please let me be wrong – they were shipping the wok lid early and if it was coming by UPS. There was very little info there, except…they were shipping the lid by UPS. No arrival date or any other info, just that it was coming UPS.

Oh, man. How many people did I tell my sad story to? Not to mention that while I was dealing with stomach pain, I was preparing my heart for Gary’s return home.

Time would tell. And it did. My wok lid arrived Friday afternoon. UPS left it on the ramp, and I had to wait for help to bring it in.

I feel like such an idiot. A sad idiot, actually, because he’s not home yet. And when that day comes, I hope I’m ready. I promised myself I won’t tell anyone anymore about that until he’s actually here. I’ll need some time to deal with that, and anyone who has lost a loved one knows what I mean.

When I’m ready, I’ll reach out to family and friends. Until then, I wait. And I pray for strength.

Margi
Sunday, June 21, 2020

Random thoughts on a Thursday night

I used to spend a lot of time outside with Gary and the dog, staring at the sky and daydreaming. I miss that.

I’ve been journaling for decades. And by that I mean I’ve bought or have been given journals to write in, and yet, well.

It makes my tummy do a flip when I gather some of them together – all sizes and shapes. Some have padded covers, some are hard, some are really big and unwieldy. I’ve even gone out during back-to-school sales and bought a bunch of spiral bound notebooks simply because they were ten cents each. Sheesh. I ended up giving a bunch of them to my sister for her new job as reporter at the newspaper where I worked for over 13 years.

(Speaking of that, Sis just got started, got two days into it, when BAM!, the world ground to a halt and we all pretty much ended up being prisoners in our own homes, but that’s another story.)

Back to the tummy flip. The reason that happens is because almost none of the journals were finished. I had the highest hopes of filling up one a year. How hard could it be?

I’ve found priceless memories inside some of these gems. There are facts in there that I would never remember now. I say facts because I wrote them down as they happened. Hey, if I miss a journal entry now by a day or two I don’t trust myself to remember something unless it was also written on a calendar, or I can double-check by using my phone to check calls made or texts sent.

I’m saying all of this to make a point: I’ve started a new way to journal. I’m using a program called Dabble. It’s something I ran across when I tried (and failed) National Novel Writing Camp a month or so ago. (See what I mean about the memory thing?) I like its simplicity, and I checked with our local print shop to see how easy it would be to send a finished copy to them to have it bound. Granted, the book I plan to send them about Gary is in another format, but still. I have the same option with Dabble so I’ll use it.

I guess I like this program because I have it on almost every device. It refuses to be compatible with one laptop, but that’s okay. I do write in it almost every day, but since I started it in early May, I call it, “My Incomplete Journal of 2020”.

After I write the last entry on December 31, I will get it set to be printed and spiral-bound. I’ll pick a photo for the cover and send it all on to the printer. Then, I’ll start the 2021 journal.

One could say that now I have enough time to write as many books as I want. It’s funny, though. Journaling is very different than writing fiction. I no longer have a desire to make up things. I love reading made-up stories, but I no longer want to write them. Instead, I record what’s going on around me and “out there”.

Out there. Scary, huh? And yet, I demand the right to be free to come and go as I please. Yes, I know I can, even if it’s physically impossible right now. Until then, I’ll part the curtains, look out onto a changed world, and write down what I see (and feel) before it all changes – again.

Margi
Thursday, June 4, 2020

I didn’t mean it like that

Sarah Jane often appears in my dreams

 

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

A few days ago I wrote something on my Facebook wall that made a few folks worry about me. I should have known better.

The words went something like, “Is there anyone else who can’t wait to fall asleep and dream so they have someone to talk to?”

Thing is, I meant that in the most literal way. I have vivid dreams, and I remember most of them. They are truly weird, most of the time. Before I go to bed, I always pray for God to protect me while I sleep and in my dreams. Sometimes I even ask Him to protect me in my “weird dreams.” After all, He knows how weird they are too, right?

Often Gary and the kids are there. Those are the best. We talk, do things, drive around, shop – usually for groceries. I find us living in the house on Tenney Street, or here where I now live. Many times our dogs are with us – Sarah Jane, Blackie, Cujo.

The other night there were cats. One in particular walked toward Gary and me, meowed loudly, and demanded attention. Truth be told, it was a little frightening. But Gary told me that we should take the cat in, and that led to several other cats. There were dogs, too, but they didn’t stand out like the cats did.

In this dream we lived in the house on Tenney. Our heat registers were flat in the floor (as they were in real life), and one thing that bothered me (yeah, there was more than one thing) was that the cats came inside before I had a chance to get supplies – like litter boxes. No problem, apparently, because they just went to the bathroom on top of the registers.

Throughout our lives we’ve adopted many cats. I know the importance of keeping a clean litter box. I’m kind of fastidious about it, which is probably why I can’t have a cat now. I tend to check the box far too often and tire myself out cleaning it. I assume those of you who have had cats know what it’s like to have cats go potty in other places. As I watched the kitty in my dream, all I could do was ask myself why I didn’t smell anything. Well, duh. It was a dream. Whew.

It is awfully quiet around here. By that I mean, there’s no one else alive in my home. There’s television and radio, and one of the two is on most of the time. At night I often ask Alexa to play blizzard sounds, or wind, train, or thunderstorm sounds. If it’s been a while, I’ll ask for my country playlist. You have to realize, though, it’s not the same as having a living, human being to talk to.

I’m not the only one living this way. And I’m handling it as best I can. I haven’t gone off the deep end, no matter what it sounds like. I do my best to think pleasant thoughts before drifting off each night, and I’m happy to say that a book idea came to me the other night.

As I write this, it’s over an hour after midnight. My sleep cycle is messed up again, or is it? Who’s to say what’s normal at this time in my life? What is normal? Who cares?

Anyway, please don’t concern yourself with an old(er) woman who likes to catch up with memories in her dreams, and who takes that opportunity to enjoy a little company and conversation. It’s not a sad thing; in fact, my dreams are pretty funny sometimes. Like the one where Gary and I adopted a brown and white Great Dane. I have no clue if there is such a thing, but there you go.

In dreams, anything can happen.

Margi
Sunday, April 5, 2020

Yes, what was lost has been found

The last Christmas party with Clint at our home

Was it really March 2? Three weeks ago? It feels more like a few minutes.

That’s when, at 5:51 p.m., I was told that our oldest son has been found. After over 17 years, I finally had an answer – of sorts.

I was told where he is. I was told something else, too, but I won’t be sharing his location or what else was said. I know there are those who have kept Clint on their prayer list for years and I want to let you know that this prayer has been answered.

I’ve been struggling mightily about how to share this news. I have to do so while keeping the crux of what I know under wraps – even from myself. I can’t dwell on it at the moment or I’ll lose what sanity I have left.

There are those who have spread the word that Gary and I have known where Clint has been all of these years, that we were protecting him from the authorities. Our grandchildren were told this, too, and believed it. And yet…

…Gary died not knowing where his son was. Or if he was even alive. I can only imagine the conversation we would have had upon finally learning where Clint is. Maybe if that had happened I wouldn’t be locking up what I know until I feel I can handle it.

It’s a weird feeling to compartmentalize what I was told, to share just the fact that I know where he is, and nothing else. I guess it’s something I’ve become good at and I have to wonder if that’s a good thing.

Someday, maybe when I’m sitting outside on a warm summer evening, I’ll let my mind wander and the memory from March 2 will pop up. No one will be around and I will be able to let whatever I’m feeling break free. I will, with God’s help, try to deal with what happens.

Until then, thank you all for your prayers. I believe God’s timing is perfect. I believe I will eventually deal with what I now know.

Margi
Monday, March 23, 2020

The call came Monday

I got the call at 5:51 p.m. on Monday, March 2. The ringing of the phone jerked me out of a sound sleep. Yes, I was asleep, curled up in bed. This past week has been the second anniversary of the last week of Gary’s life.

I don’t know if you remember, but I do. He went into the hospital for a small procedure on February 27, 2018, was discharged on Saturday, March 3, and was gone on Monday, March 5.

It surprised me that after months of not crying, suddenly I was feeling blue and the tears started. When I realized it was late February, the answer as to why was obvious. No need to fight it; just brace for the wave.

Let’s go back to the call. It’s a call that’s changed my life. I haven’t yet decided if what I was told has more good to it than bad. The call lasted a minute. For that minute, and a few afterward, I forgot the grief I was going through.

I called the two people I’m closest to and they were just as dumbfounded as I. One of them burst into tears, as I had done, then we talked a bit. When I hung up, I sat in a daze for a while.

After that? Well, after that I shoved what I now knew deep inside and locked it away. I simply can’t deal with it right now because once I go down that road there will be no turning back.

I don’t mean to be melodramatic here, even if it’s coming off that way. It’s just that I need to have a place to type out what thoughts I have at the moment. I’m coming out of dealing with the biggest loss of my life. Yes, I know we lost our youngest in 1978; I’ve had decades to come to terms with losing Luke. There’s a hole in my heart for him, too.

I was sitting here thinking about what to make for breakfast tomorrow. I go into detail in my mind, and as I pictured myself cooking, putting everything on a plate, and sitting down it hit me again: there will be just the one place-setting. And of course, the tears came.

They’re gone now. They don’t last as long and my thoughts turn to how thankful I am for the memories. There are so many! There better be after over 45 years, right?

Someday, when I’m ready, I’ll take that Monday message and begin that journey. It’s going to be a long one, yes, and I have at least two people to help me along the way.

Thank God for family.

Margi
Saturday, March 7, 2020

I want to feel my heart again

I miss sitting outside with my pooch.

I’m sitting here kinda watching The Price is Right. In other words, it’s on but mostly for background noise. When the showcase portion comes on, I’ll pay attention.

I think I’m turning into *that* old lady. The one with a dull routine. Murder, She Wrote at 7, Dateline at 8, Let’s Make a Deal at 9, The Price is Right at 10, news at 11, and some form of true crime for most of the rest of the day.

At the same time the shows are on, I’m checking Facebook, reading, playing Gummy Drop, or working on my latest color-by-number project.

Like I said, a dull routine. At least I start the day with a devotional. Oh, and coffee. Can’t forget the coffee.

I’m searching for what to write. I’m searching for what to do. My mobility is somewhat limited, and I’m praying that gets better every day. When the weather does wonky things, the pain can be almost unbearable. We all know that’s true for lots of folks.

Do you ever feel like you’re drifting aimlessly, looking for what it is you should be doing? What if this is what I’m supposed to be doing? It’s not a bad existence, right?

It’s just that I don’t think we’re supposed to merely exist. I do a lot of praying, and not just for myself. I pray for family, friends, strangers. And I miss my favorite aunt who was my prayer warrior. I have a special memory of her that I promise to write about one day soon.

In the meantime, I’ll enjoy this dull routine, this existence, until things change.

There is one thing. I’ve put feelers out there about adopting a small dog. When that happens, I’ll have lots to share. When that happens, I believe I’ll start feeling my heart again.

Margi
Monday, March 20, 2020

Too busy? No, not always.

Our favorite – Aunt Vonnie – frosting her cake for our visit around the kitchen table.

Busy, busy, busy. My favorite aunt would apologize over and over about being too busy (with work) to do other things, like shopping or visiting or some other fun thing.

I would find my temper getting away from me. I couldn’t stand that reason. It was used too often, I thought. But honestly, she was in real estate and her schedule wasn’t her own.

I wouldn’t have lasted a month at that job, and I told her that. We both laughed; it was true.

In this new phase of life I’m finding that many of my widow friends are busy people. They work, belong to a number of clubs and organizations, babysit their great-grandchildren. They have lives. Busy ones.

I wasn’t able to continue working, I’ve little to no interest in joining a club, and as far as I know, I don’t have any great-grandchildren. At this point in my physical condition, I couldn’t take care of a small child.

It’s not like I have no interests. I read a lot, take notes for future books, and dabble in writing. November was good because of National Novel Writing Month. I wanted to be a part of the tens of thousands who were writing their fingers off trying to put out 50,000 words in a month.

During this time when other widows were busy, I was sitting around “reflecting”. That got me into trouble because it led to daily pity parties. There wasn’t much to take my mind off of being alone. I ran into memories with every step I took. Sleep eluded me. There wasn’t work or club meetings or anything else to occupy my mind.

I admire those women who picked themselves up and kept going. They kept living. They taught me that life goes on, something I knew intellectually but failed to put into practice.

Most things that carried to the extreme are probably not good for us. Keeping our minds occupied with outside interests sounds wonderful, and healthful.

Someday, hopefully soon, I’ll jump into that kind of life and occupy my mind and heart with more of the world around me.

Margi
Tuesday, February 18, 2020

Like Johnny and June

“…and when you’re gone, I wanna go too. Like Johnny and June.” (from Johnny and June, by Heidi Newfield)

I felt that way when Gary died. I wanted nothing more than to be with him. Feelings of disbelief were a part of my daily life, from when I woke up to when I tried to sleep at night.

There were one or two people who knew how I felt because we talked about it. They understood, and as far as I know neither of them tried to have me committed anywhere for my own safety.

I’m not sure what made me look it up, but one day I Googled about the possibility of dying from a broken heart. Seems it’s quite the possibility, and it scared me just a bit. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to go. I was scared because I thought it was a way to bring about my own death. No.

On March 5th, it will be two years. Truth be told, most days I handle being alone well. There are days and nights when that’s simply not true. I wander around here, wondering how in the world I could be a productive person ever again.

I know I won’t be going back to work. That’s over, and I’m fine with that. I was sure I would get jealous of anyone who took my place. Turns out I couldn’t care less. As I’ve said before, writing features was NOT one of my favorite things. It was my least favorite thing.

Sure, if there was a piece to be done about dogs, cats, or writers – well, okay. Everything else was just too hard for me. Sit me in a courtroom to listen to cops, attorneys, judges, and defendants – that I enjoyed.

So, here I am now, listening to my country playlist and Johnny and June comes on. I can remember hearing that lyric above, and I can remember feeling that way. Ever so slowly over the past almost two years, my mindset has changed. There are far fewer tears and sleepless nights, yet….

I’m trying to figure out what to do with my life. Blog about it? Write a book? Yeah, there are a few books in various stages of completion but I miss writing fiction. Should I start a series? Am I too old for that? Will the words come if I get out of the house and write at a coffee shop or library?

Or should I move my writing space to the room where Gary spent so much time? Right now it’s more of a library/laundry room, but what if…?

I don’t believe my ability to forge ahead has anything to do with outside influences or age or places. I believe it’s inside me somewhere and I just can’t seem to find it.

I pray that someday soon I’ll stumble upon it. I want my life to mean something again.

Margi
Monday, February 17, 2020